"I wanted to be you, I wanted to be you, I wanted to be someone else."

The Scouting for Girls interest group proudly present their latest in a series of self-help methods aimed at men keen to attract women. The crux of this particular method: simply wish that you are James Bond. They assure you that women will be impressed by a forlorn man clasping on to an absurd fantasy about being a spy. In fact, Scouting for Girls urge you on further - they maintain that women find overgrown 12-year-olds simply irresistible! But the real beauty of the plan is that women can also be touched by the poignant pathos of your fantasy. Ah, how sweet that you wanted to be a sadomasochistic womaniser who kills in the name of the clandestine interests of an imperialist authority. How nice that you wanted to collapse the world into one-dimensional racist and sexist stereotypes!

Alesha Dixon - The Boy Does Nothing

"Does he wash up? Never wash up. Does he clean up? No, he never cleans up. Does he brush up? Never brushed up. He does nothing, the boy does nothing."

Have any of you scruffbags out there suspected that life was inherently pointless? If you were in any doubt, Alesha Dixon is on hand to remorselessly smash the point home. Reeling from the shock, you collect your thoughts. What was it she said? Your shake your head, stammering in denial like a drunkard refusing to accept his inebriated state. Say it slowly: if you don't wash the dishes, clean your house or preen yourself in order to impress others you are not doing anything. Nothing else counts. This is in accordance with Alesha's brave new reformulation of the Cartesian cogito argument: "I clean, therefore I am." So remember kids, clean up - or fail to exist!

Kids in Glass Houses - Fisticuffs

"So many bodies on the street tonight. And we're not leaving here without a fight/So many hobbies broke my back tonight. And we're not leaving here without a fight/Don't tell me I don't know, what it's like to be alone/Don't tell me I don't know, how to run this fashion show."

Fisticuffs is a painfully honest and potentially liberty-threatening portrayal of the band's favourite hobby - starting punch-ups with dead bodies strewn on the street. "But!" I hear you cry, "They're already dead, they can't be any trouble to Kids in Glass Houses now, can they?!" But the band beg to differ. They don't like dead people. Some band members have even broken their backs in demanding altercations with decomposing human remnants. That they are a band only reinforces their sense of solitude, consolidating their intuitions that to be a "corpse-puncher" is to tread the perilous territory of the misunderstood outlaw. You'll be treated to an aggressive riposte if you accuse them of not knowing what solitude is like. Don't go there dude. But you might be excused in telling them that exhibiting their disintegrating victims in a fashion show might be a little bit intemperate and land them in serious trouble with the police to boot. Actually don't go there either, dude.

Filthy Dukes - Tupac Robot Club Rock

Filthy Dukes return with a fine examplar of the time-honoured dictum: "If it's crap, just add rap!" According to the band's blog, the song came about after a lengthy period of soul-searching. At the end of a gruelling odyssey, they concluded that the aforementioned soul simply wasn't there. "What now?" they cried, as many have when faced with a soul vacuum. In the cold light of morning the plan was drawn up. "If we have no soul, then how about an utterly threadbare idea that ran out of steam years ago?" The band rubbed their eyes, looked nervously about the room and set about steeling themselves to the purpose. They only had one slight worry - what if people twigged that their plan was, like, total shit? Well, luckily they came up with a backup plan: "If in doubt, hire some rappers!" After all, "rappers" have soul on tap! Watch as they rock the party!

Stereophonics - You're My Star

"Sometimes I cave right in." As he walked along the edge of the field, the earth seemed to splinter at each step. A glance along the cold hedgerow hurt his eye. Everything he looked at sent dread through his viscera, none the less sharp for all of its familiarity. Stones underfoot seemed to chatter and sneer, the Luton-grey sky was an idiotic, mocking expanse. He paused at the brook, cold dirty glass. Dull pain accompanied a frame of memory; he had bathed his feet here as a boy. Nearly losing his balance, he said, out loud as if to silence the roaring dead air of the November morning: "That water is too shallow to drown myself in."